


One of us is going down

by Charlievh



Category: Need for Speed (Video Games)
Genre: Boys Will Be Boys, Car Porn, Fanart, Hate Sex, M/M, Rape, Street Racing, non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-18
Updated: 2017-05-18
Packaged: 2018-11-02 04:44:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10937265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charlievh/pseuds/Charlievh
Summary: He wasn’t done with Rockport yet. Or maybe it was the other way around. (takes place after the events of the originalNeed for Speed: Most Wanted)





	One of us is going down

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Blacklist Boy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1907961) by [Sharku](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sharku/pseuds/Sharku). 



> This came about as an attempt to solve my writer’s block. I’ve been toying with the idea of unfinished business between the player and Razor ever since my first playthrough many years ago. A recent replay just made the beast come back. Hard.
> 
> Title comes from _You're Going Down_ by Sick Puppies; for me, it’s the ultimate NFSMW song. The ‘cover art’ is my edit of a photo by Ekaterina Zakharova. I’m so grateful she allows non-commercial modifications of her beautiful work.
> 
> Many thanks to my friend PestoMonkey for being the most badass beta reader anyone could ever ask for. It’s her keen eye – both real and internalized – that keeps me pushing myself to try and become a better writer.
> 
> WARNING: violence (sexual and otherwise).

 

“Enemies are the people who think about you more than your friends do.”  
–Donna Lynn Hope

 

When he stole back into Rockport City under the cover of late dusk, the streets felt different. Deserted and quiet. And not lazy summer day quiet but terminal and dying quiet.

Maybe it was coz he’d never roamed this part of the city at night. Steering his hard-won BMW through the back lanes of this urban no man’s land – headlights switched off so as not to attract undue attention – he could see why street racing in this dump had taken place during daylight hours. Forget the obligatory flashy neon signs, upbeat music blasting from clubs, or half-naked babes brightening the sidewalks. Devoid of sunlight, Rockport had all the glamour of a friggin’ murder scene.

Which he supposed was kinda fitting, considering he was the only Blacklist racer who’d made it out alive – or unbusted, whatever. His mind had been stuck ever since on a constant replay of the loud wailing and dreaded red-and-blue glare of 5-0 chasing him all over town, all the way to the bridge to Palmont City and his suicidal jump for freedom.

‘Suicidal’ being the keyword.

Coz here he was, not even 36 hours later, back in enemy territory instead of lying low in the anonymity of his cheap motel room, shooting nervous glances at his dead radio every other second, even sticking to the speed limit for fuck’s sake. He had to be one hundred percent nuts to come back here so soon – especially in the one car that made RPD froth at the mouth faster than a fucking jelly doughnut.

But the moment his old safe house loomed into view, even the sirens in his head fell silent. Pulling into the parking lot, he looked at the grimy building with the same affection a vagrant must feel for his cardboard box.

That is, until he jabbed his remote to open the garage door and switched on the BMW’s headlights to maneuver her inside. His chest imploded into a black hole in a way the term ‘heart attack’ didn’t begin to describe.

The place was fucking empty.

His fingers clutched the steering wheel in a death grip as he drove forward and killed the engine. The dying rays of the evening sun spilled in from outside while he sat in the BMW and stared dumbly around the garage. His darting eyes spotted the rusty tool chest on which he kept all his car keys; or rather, _had_ once kept – coz they were gone now, every last one of ‘em.

Trembling with powerless rage, he threw his door open and got out of the car. The garage door rolled shut behind him as he kicked at a nearby oil barrel with enough force to leave a dent and welcomed the ensuing flash-bang of pain in his foot.

Thing is, he wasn’t brain dead. He’d known 5-0 was hot on his trail, known his old hideouts were no safer than the streets – courtesy of Mia. But he hadn’t expected Rockport to turn into a goddamn police state in little more than a day. To think RPD had broken into his gasoline-scented sanctuary, snatched the keys off his little altar, and parked their fat asses on his expensive upholstery to feel up his babies… Suddenly the whole place – down to the last spare tire, crushed beer can, and empty pizza box – felt tainted with some unholy force.

Physically, as it turned out.

“Didn’t think I’d let ya go without a parting gift, did ya?”

A gravelly voice broke the silence and he spun around faster than a tire during burnout, heart beating like a motherfucker against his ribs. Darkness pooled around the garage like a giant oil slick, but his eyes could just barely make out a shape stirring in the far corner, flicking on the light switch in passing.

Above him, the bare light bulb on the ceiling sprung to life. Hot fumes swirled in the center of the garage amidst a weak halo of golden light. The soft glow formed a sharp contrast with the dark menace emerging from the shadows, footsteps echoing across the empty space like a dying heartbeat.

His own pulse sounded loud in his ears while he watched the unwelcome visitor and his annoying-as-fuck swagger stalk toward him, slowly and deliberately but with a stiffness that hinted at the mentally unstable psycho lurking underneath.

Instinctively, he stepped in front of the BMW, spreading his hands over the bodywork behind him – whether protectively or to steel his own nerves, he wasn’t sure. Coz he’d _known_ who was here to add insult to injury the moment the scumbag opened that shit-eating mouth of his.

_Razor fuckin’ Callahan._

It was a mental fight not to shrink back against his ride. The ride that until yesterday had belonged to the very shithead now standing less than three feet away – all black tank top and jeans and colorful half sleeve tattoos, fingers twitching restlessly and dangerously by his sides, the ugly lines in his face accentuated by the shadows of the exhaust fans playing over his features.

“Miss me?”

The shithead who shoulda been having all-too-real nightmares about dropping the soap by now.

“You sonovabitch,” he responded weakly.

Razor narrowed his eyes and loosened his neck in jerky little movements, jaw rigid and a nervous tic playing at the taut corner of his mouth. Everything about the guy screamed IED.

He wondered how the hell Razor found out about this place. Wondered how many hours he’d been lurking in the shadows waiting for him, how much he was risking coming here, how many texts and calls and voicemails he’d received from this fucker over the past few months – and decided he didn’t want to know.

“You just don’t know when to quit, do you?” he asked instead, feeling numb.

“Oh, I know,” Razor drawled in return, stepping even closer. “Why d’ya think I’m here?”

By now the guy was invading his personal space, smelling of leather and motor oil and hot simmering rage, his voice soft and throaty as always but filling the empty garage in a way that was almost filmic – like some old western maybe, ending with the inevitable deadly showdown between two sworn rivals.

_Where’s your Mustang, Razor? Ha fuckin’ ha._

“You cost me everything,” Razor hissed. “My title, my street rep, my ride–” his snake-like eyes flicked to the BMW for a second, “–and damn near my freedom too. Mommy never teach you it ain’t right to always take, take, take and never give?”

He said nothing, just stood his ground and watched the nightmare unfold.

“Luckily, our friendly neighborhood cop Sergeant Cross has offered me the chance to return the favor by cuttin’ me a deal.”

_Wait, what?!_

His eyes widened and promptly darted all over the garage, expecting the raid of the century to come raining down on him like red-and-blue hellfire.

Razor chuckled at the shocked look on his face. “Don’t worry, sugar, it’s just the two of us. I’m pretty sure Cross is in need of some alone time right now. Guy must be gettin’ off on tearing your Viper into scrap metal or giving the Gallardo a special black ‘n’ white makeover.”

The cops. His rides.

Oh god. He was gonna be sick.

“You shoulda been there when he came to visit me in jail. Pissed as hell coz his bust failed to hit the jackpot. And you and I both know that once a man hits rock bottom, he’s bound to do crazy things.”

And just like that, Razor’s smile disappeared down the corner, gone as if it had never existed. “Good ol’ Sarge made it crystal clear he wouldn’t cut me a goddamn break so long as Rockport’s Most Wanted was still out there, hauntin’ his dreams in an M3 GTR… _my_ M3 GTR.”

He felt like crying. He wanted to speak, to shout, to scream his lungs raw, but no words came out. He didn’t know whose guts he hated more, Razor’s or Cross’s, but he did know he liked the freakin’ tandem a helluva lot less.

“But I say screw him.” Razor lowered his voice to a mock-confidential tone, leaning in close enough for him to feel the guy’s body heat, cornering him against the BMW. “See, I’m glad all he got his hands on were your wheels… coz he ain’t the only one lookin’ to make you his bitch.”

Something in that tone prompted him to meet Razor’s eyes, and his heart gave an eager beat at what he saw. They were back to cruising familiar streets now.

When Razor spoke up again, it sounded like a late night confession. “Thing is, RPD’s been kind enough to partner me up with this gorgeous babe to help me smoke your ass. I do believe the two of you have met – she’s a fiery black thing. Likes to, ah, _horse_ around.”

_No way._

_He got the fuckin’ Mustang back._

Every muscle in his body tensed something sweet in response to an unknown key turning on his ignition. He didn’t even bother to hide it anymore.

“I know you want me just as much as I want you, sweetheart, so I’m only gonna make this offer once.” Razor’s voice was a battery sending a current of high-voltage sparks through his nerves. “You ‘n’ me. One last drag race. No ifs or buts, no second guesses, no outside interference. Fast and deadly, the way we both like it.”

Deadly – yeah, you got that right. If he planned on sneaking his wanted ass outta Rockport a second time, he couldn’t risk another run-in with the law right now. And Razor must have a friggin’ death wish if he thought of bailing out on Cross.

The whole thing reeked of a clever-ass trap – with the cops dangling Razor in front of him as some kind of sick bait – except he didn’t buy it. Sure, a set up was the only way for this visit to make any fuckin’ sense… but something in Razor’s crazed eyes told him this wasn’t supposed to make sense.

His mouth opened before his brain had a chance to stop him.

“Stakes?” he asked, a slight tremor in his voice.

Cocky sneer spreading over his mug, Razor waggled his eyebrows once in wicked challenge. “Anything _,_ ” he said softly.

He must have stared a little too hard, coz Razor added, “Let’s face it, pal. You and I are a little past money, and tradin’ cars is getting pretty fuckin’ stale. I say we put it all on the line, anything goes, and let the winner pick his prize once he’s crossed the finish. That is, if ya got the balls.”

It was a dangerous thing to agree to – and not _drag racing through the city at rush hour_ dangerous but _speeding along the freeway at 150 mph toward a head-on collision with three SUVs_ dangerous – but frankly, he didn’t give a damn about the risks. At this stage he probably would’ve agreed to put his life on the line – hell, for all he knew, he _was_ – coz there was no way he was gonna fold. Not this game.

A shiver of disgust snaked down his spine when he felt Razor’s hot breath ghost over his ear. “Don’t strain your brain thinkin’ of a reward yet, pretty boy, coz I might just spray it across the road like a new type of street art. But while you’re at it, how about wishing for a new girlfriend – ya know, one without a major handcuffs fetish?”

He couldn’t help it, he tensed at the gibe. He had yet to sort out his clusterfuck of feelings on the whole _chick with the hots for me turns out to be undercover cop_ deal.

Razor clearly enjoyed the effect he was having. “Hey, I just hope you never made it to home base with her, or by now the whole precinct knows all those big-ass, flashy rides is just their Most Wanted doing some serious compensatin’.”

He moved to punch the fucker in the mouth, but Razor ducked to the side and brought up a fist to bust him square in the nose. Tears sprung to his eyes while he doubled up with pain, hands muffling his curses as he cradled the tender cartilage.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Still hunched over, he blinked away the tears and forced himself to raise his head. Razor was watching him cruelly, sneer dripping with venom.

“Meet ya south of Gray Point Bridge in an hour. Be a doll and bring me some roses. I don’t like ‘em, I might leave ‘em on your grave.”

 _Fuck this guy_ , he thought for what must be the gazillionth time.

“Oh, and next time… I won’t hold back,” Razor promised, shooting him a dark look. Then he was out of the garage, plunging him in blissful solitude after slamming the side door shut behind him with a metallic, echoing bang.

_Bet his new cop buddies bumped the damn lock or something._

Moments later, he heard the Ford Mustang’s roaring engine and squealing tires as it disappeared into the night like a raucous, high-speed phantom.

He finally straightened up and lowered his slightly trembling hands, relieved to find no blood on his fingers. He spent the next forty-five minutes doing a double check on his ride, pretending the subwoofers of his mind didn’t replay their conversation over and over again like some messed-up remix.

***

Another quarter of an hour later and he was waiting at the starting line on Ocean Hills Drive, as agreed, staring off into the distance at the endless black sea of stars reflected beneath and above the horizon until he could no longer tell down from up.

His left arm dangled out of the open window while he thrummed his right hand on the steering wheel, betraying his agitation. On his way here, he’d tried tuning into his favorite radio station to calm the jitters in his stomach, but the familiar hip hop bass had only made them worse. He’d been fretting in silence ever since.

The summer night air was thick and humid, as if trapping him in a fevered dream, but the gentle sea breeze did wonders for clearing his head.

When at last a pair of headlights flashed in his rearview mirror, taunting him, he was ready to roll.

The pitch black Mustang GT – near invisible in the darkness but for the bright flames gleaming on the bodywork – slowly came up on his right and halted when both cars were perfectly aligned, engines rumbling expectantly.

He pushed the button to let his window back up and looked over at the other driver. Razor did the same, both hands twitching at the wheel as he rolled his neck, looking wired and restless.

The whole exchange was eerily reminiscent of the first time they’d clashed, not long after his arrival in Rockport. His head felt drunk on the prospect of going one-on-one with the punk that had been a thorn in his side – or a nail in his tires – from day one.

Here, at the end of the line, he realized they never _did_ get to see which car would bite the other’s dust. But if there was one set of wheels that could hold its own against his BMW, it had to be the ride wailing next to him, engine revving loudly in a whirl of tire smoke.

He turned his gaze to the empty stretch of road ahead, heartbeat speeding up to match the powerful vibrations of his beloved M3 GTR. His fingers were itching to bridle the over 400 horses humming under the hood, wide-eyed and chomping at the bit and stamping their sleek metallic hooves in excitement.

In the corner of his eye, there was the glint of the Mustang’s red-tinted glass being lowered. He twisted his head to find Razor leaning out of the driver’s side window, curling his upper lip in a hateful leer when he had his opponent’s full attention.

“Ready?” he mouthed over the car noise in that exaggerated, arrogant-as-fuck way of his.

He gave him a long, hard look and ostentatiously flipped him the bird by way of response.

Razor squared his jaw, a vein throbbing ominously in his clean-shaven, punk-ass face. The guy compulsively slapped his own cheek a couple of times, as if to snap out of it, then reached down to fetch something from the seat beside him.

His blood turned to ice at the sudden movement, but before he had time to react, the fucker turned back toward him with a deranged smirk and held up a black rose.

He could almost _hear_ the unspoken message in that smug look.

_Didn’t figure ya for the romantic type, so I brought my own._

Slowly lifting the dark flower to his nose, Razor closed his eyes and sniffed it affectedly, putting on some kind of bizarre show and clearly enjoying the hell outta it. Then once again those cold eyes were open and boring straight into him, no traces of humor left on Razor’s face as his tongue flicked out to taste the petals.

_Motherfucker._

He could not tear his eyes away from the sheer obscenity of it, watching as the sick fuck deftly ran his tongue over the delicate rose, lewd and sexual and completely losing himself in the act.

And just like that his tongue was gone and the moment was over, with Razor waggling his eyebrows at him like the douche he was, acting as if nothing happened.

Confused as fuck – no, scratch that, how ‘bout stepping up the pedal to _freaked out_ – he dimly recalled the bio on Razor that Rog had whipped up for him.

_He’ll do anything he can to give himself an edge. That includes messin’ with your head._

Right, figures. Fuckin’ cunt.

But that he could deal with.

Getting a grip on himself and relishing the extra rush of adrenaline, he pressed his foot down on the gas a little more. He locked eyes with Razor as his BMW roared her music, a siren song composed of nitrous and carbon dioxide that he knew for _a fact_ this asshole couldn’t resist.

Razor briefly bared his teeth like a rabid dog and plucked a black petal off the rose. Tossing the rest of the flower back on the passenger’s seat, the Blacklist’s former #1 held his successor’s gaze as he dangled the lone petal out of the top of his open window.

His sneering lips formed another word. “Showtime.”

The next moment, the window started rolling back up, dark red glass flashing like a fatal countdown. Razor’s hand hovered just outside the window sill, lingering near the roof as he kept the fateful black petal pinched between thumb and forefinger.

The thunder of the engines seemed to die down as both of them held their breaths, pulse rate soaring higher than a goddamn police chopper.

Window halfway up.

Every muscle in his body stiffened in anticipation, right foot tapping like he was amped on coke, left hand impatiently cradling the steering wheel while his right one reached down to slide firmly yet lovingly over the gearshift. The knob fitted into his palm like he was born for it.

He knew Razor was going through the exact same routine – with one crucial little exception dangling almost surreally out of the car.

When the window came within an inch of his fingers, Razor let go. Their gazes met one last time, heated and breathless. Then the two of ‘em floored it.

The Mustang screeched forward with smoking tires, swaying slightly from side to side until its rider grabbed a firm hold of the reins and really put the pedal to the metal.

His M3 GTR went from 0 to 100 mph in less than three seconds, but he wasn’t dumb enough to try and beat a muscle car’s acceleration. When Razor took the lead straight away he let him, forcing himself to stay cool and focus on the curves of his girl, running keen fingers over the gear knob and listening for her sweet spot before making the shift. The engine hummed and quivered in appreciation as his car began to pick up speed.

“C’mon baby, dance for me,” he muttered under his breath.

At this time of night there was no traffic to hamper their self-destructive dash for freedom, no gawking crowds to ruin their crazy magic-on-wheels. Just the two of them on the road to perdition, suspended in time as the blur of scenery flew by, muscles straining and breaths hitching, high on the sound and smell of their fast-paced, illicit dance.

He could almost _taste_ Razor’s sweat on his tongue.

In no time he was in 5th gear and breathing down Razor’s neck at 180 mph. As the BMW seemingly remembered the way on her own, tires gripping the racing line with no conscious effort, his eyes gravitated to the taunting red glare of the Mustang’s tail lights rapidly drawing nearer. Knuckles tightening around the wheel, he stuck to his opponent’s left as they sped along the road like there was no tomorrow, steering his ride expertly until both cars came up level with barely five inches between one flank and the other.

He glanced sideways just as Razor did the same, a manic glint in his eyes, tattooed body coiled like a tightly-wound spring. The moment their gazes crossed, pumped up and blazing hot, Razor winked and pursed his lips in a mocking kiss.

A split second later, the guy yanked the wheel around and hurtled himself against the side of his car like a man possessed.

As the BMW gave a violent shudder, his right hand instinctively shot up from the gearshift to regain control of the steering wheel while the cold fist of panic closed around his heart. Even at breakneck speed, he knew Razor had the driving skills to tag his rear with a subtle, well-placed bump that would send him spinning off road and into a ditch, leaving him stranded and forced to lick his wounds.

Instead, the nut job slammed full force into the bodywork and clung to his ride like he planned on setting some sick trading paint record.

He could feel his own hold in their deadly tug o’ war slipping away, wheels losing purchase on the asphalt as the BMW – going too fast, way too goddamn fast – began to drift and veer toward a power plant up ahead. The sight of solid concrete wall had him overcome his nature and lift his foot off the gas to pound down on the brakes.

It was too late to stop their momentum, though, and he knew it. Not with the Mustang still howling like a demon against the right side of his car, ramming him toward certain doom with ruthless force and precision.

Part of him prayed Razor had the sense to pull away before they both crashed headfirst into the wall – even if there was no way to avoid collision, it would lessen the force of impact. But that was when he found himself staring into a pair of murderous, psychotic eyes, and realized with frightening lucidity that this guy wasn’t looking to win the race.

Who was it that said hate was like drinking poison and hoping for the other dude to die, or some such shit?

Something inside him snapped and one last thought crossed his mind before all hell broke loose. If he was going down, this bastard was going down with him.

***

The second before collision, he screwed his eyes shut and prayed he was lucky enough to pass out.

Shocker of the day: he wasn’t.

Trapped in a couple-thousand-pound steel and rubber coffin, his sorry ass was forced to live through the whole five-second eternity of the crash – a sickening medley of glass breaking and metal straining mixed with squealing tires. His upper body got hurled into the airbag like a freakin’ crash test dummy until he was no longer sure which way was up, seatbelt digging into his chest like it was gonna tear him in half.

Then it was over, and a deathly silence settled over a world of hurt.

In the far, off-road corners of his mind, he knew he’d come to a standstill, and his madly pounding heart told him he was still alive. It took several deep, uneven breaths to will his bruised and aching body back into action and pry his eyelids open.

He nearly wept at the sight that greeted him.

His beautiful ride was a deformed, mutilated wreck; a hot ex-girlfriend turned crack whore. Broken glass littered his lap and the floor like shards of crystal meth while the sleek metal frame had gotten twisted up so bad it resembled a failed origami attempt. It was only thanks to the roll cage that his body hadn’t been squeezed out like a goddamn tube of car wax.

As it was, he was a little roughened up – covered in cuts and scrapes and feeling lightheaded as fuck – but otherwise okay. As okay as he’d ever be, anyway.

A dark stain caught his eye on the white airbag in front of him, and he lifted trembling fingers to his face to find blood flowing from his nose. Though if anything was bleeding, it had to be his heart.

In a sudden attack of claustrophobia – or heartache, whatever – he went for the door handle and, finding it stuck in place, shoved and kicked at the rumpled car door with anger bordering on hysteria.

At last the hinges creaked open, allowing him to crawl out of the driver’s seat and onto the power plant’s parking lot. He managed to scramble to his feet and put a little distance between himself and what was left of his ride, stumbling into the night like he was fuckin’ wasted. Before long, though, he fell back on all fours, shaking something fierce, dizzy and heaving and struggling just to breathe.

The wind picked up and he thought he could hear thunder rumbling in the distance – or maybe that was just his ears ringing. The deep silence only reminded him that he was all alone out here, the streetlamps a blurry, faraway dream without a living soul to wake him up.

He froze at the unmistakable roar of an engine coming to life.

_No._

Still bracing himself on his hands and knees, he turned his head to the car wreck glued against what used to be his BMW. His eyes widened at the red tail lights flaring up amidst a swirl of exhaust fumes like a pair of devil’s eyes.

_No. No fuckin’ way._

Even though the Mustang looked next to totaled, its driver somehow succeeded in putting the growling corpse in reverse with screeching tires, doing a shaky yet perfectly crisp one-eighty before coming to a brisk standstill dead in front of him.

As if in a trance, he slowly rose to his knees. Hands dangling helplessly by his sides, he stared up into the face of what could only be described as the four-wheeled equivalent of the Flying Dutchman.

One headlight stared at him accusingly, cracked but still functioning, blinding him and making his eyes water like a too-bright interrogation lamp. Squinting his eyes, he got a glimpse of heavily damaged metal, scratched black paint and a caved-in roof. Ninety percent of the windshield was gone, but the harsh glare prevented him from getting a good look at the driver. Hell, for a second he almost believed no one sat behind the wheel and he was gonna get run over by a friggin’ ghost car.

He should only have been so lucky.

Caught in the broken glare of the Mustang’s lone headlight, he realized there was exactly one thing left to say to this motherfucker. He raised a surprisingly steady hand in a final plea for mercy – only to flash this punk-ass angel of death the finger once more.

As if on cue, the engine died down and the light dimmed.

Trapped in darkness, hushed and foreboding, the echo of the motor still whirred in his ears while his pupils struggled to adjust. In his mind’s eye he could see a vicious snarl and fingers trembling with rage, twisting the key in the ignition with a sharp, impulsive motion before unfastening the seatbelt and throwing the driver’s door open.

A dark silhouette emerged from the Mustang and made his way toward him with the quick strides of a man who had nothing left to lose.

“Dude, what the fuck is wrong with you?!” he screamed, hating the hint of desperation in his own voice.

Stepping up to him, Razor buried a fist in his hair and dragged his head up, forcing him to look up past the nausea into the dangerous, volatile molotov of emotions on his rival’s features. Their faces were close enough for him to see that Razor, too, survived the accident – make that _attempted murder_ – mostly unscathed, apart from some minor injuries and a crazed look in his eyes that screamed first-degree homicide even worse than usual.

“Oh, there’s _plenty_ wrong with me,” Razor assured him, dead serious.

Like a snake hypnotizing its prey, his aggressor leaned in closer, hot breath slithering over his clammy skin. Except he wasn’t so sure which one of them was supposed to be the snake when, for one bizarre moment, he swore he caught that cold gaze flicking raptly to his lips.

Without warning, Razor’s free hand shot up and punched him in the face so hard his vision blackened for a second. He sagged sideways, dazed and now bleeding from both his nose and lower lip, a dark grin spreading over his face as he tasted blood. Flexing his sore jaw, he struggled to sit back up, but Razor followed up with a sharp kick to the midsection that left him doubled over on the ground, gasping for breath and arms folded miserably over his stomach.

Before he had a chance to get himself back together – never mind retaliate – Razor grabbed hold of his hair again and yanked him closer.

“Guess I’m the winner here,” Razor said softly. “Coz from where I’m standing, it sure as hell ain’t you.”

“You haven’t won jack shit,” he spat out. A trail of saliva and blood ran from his mouth and his nose nearly touched the guy’s denim-clad crotch, but he was past giving a damn.

“No. Not yet,” Razor agreed. “But you’re about to change that, sweetheart.”

His would-be murderer looked down at him with intense, unblinking eyes, lips parted slightly and voice taking on a strange, breathless tone when he added, “You’re gonna open that pretty mouth and suck my dick.”

The words hung heavy in the air between them, thick yet intangible like tire smoke. He bared his bloodied teeth like a disobedient dog, an instinctive reaction to their physical positions as much as to the actual words, and regretted it immediately when Razor whipped a gun out of his back pocket. The dark grey metal caught a glint of moonlight like a deadly rose meant especially for him – and it sure as hell didn’t look like your standard police-issued Glock 9mm.

Not that he gave a fuck about the make and model as the barrel leisurely, almost reverently, touched his left temple. The cold hard steel first caressed his forehead, then kissed down his right cheek, before Razor jabbed it back into the left side of his face. He gritted his teeth against the sick feel of his own pulse throbbing fast and painful against the muzzle.

He forced himself to look up into the face of his worst nightmare. Razor’s eyes were glazed over, and for one terrifying second he was dead sure this maniac was gonna pull the trigger and blow his fuckin’ brains out.

But then the gun sought its way to his mouth and lingered there for a moment, hovering in apparent indecision, as if Razor himself couldn’t quite believe he was doing this. After a hushed moment, the barrel coaxed his lips apart.

Seemed the lil’ speedometer of Razor’s mind had just gauged up to ‘fucked-up’. And hell, he’d already lost the BMW – might as well go all in and bet his fucking life away.

Feeling unhinged and loose, he actually opened his mouth this time, heart hammering some freaky techno beat against his chest as he let the solid metal slide slowly past his lips. The hard angles of the gun felt awkward in his mouth _(yeah,_ _no shit)_ and this was wrong on more levels than Ronnie’s ghetto slang, but fuck, the look on Razor’s face was worth it.

The hand in his hair tightened. “Guess all I had to do was ask nicely,” Razor tried to drawl, but his voice came out husky.

His heart sped up at the foreign sensations, the heavy weight of the barrel in his mouth mixed with the coppery tang of his own blood. He felt vaguely relieved at the absence of gunpowder on his tongue – seemed at least the fucker was not in the _habit_ of pullin’ the trigger.

That was when it hit him – fully hit him – that he was beaten up and bruised on his knees, in a seedy abandoned parking lot in the dead of night, all but giving head to a friggin’ semi-automatic held by his longtime enemy.

Y’know, the same enemy who looked like the poster boy of a public health campaign for anger management.

The gun nudged the back of his throat until he was one inch away from gagging. He nearly choked on it, tears springing to his eyes, but the next moment his mouth was empty again and he could cough his lungs out. Next thing he knew, the muzzle trailed over his abused, slightly swollen lips, goading him into sucking on the tip.

Complying came as easily to him as making the perfect shift or baiting the cops.

Slack-jawed and incredulous, Razor couldn’t take his eyes off him as he ran his tongue along the underside of the metal. A soft noise of arousal issued from deep down the guy’s throat. “Such a fuckin’ slut,” he breathed, like it was some messed-up compliment.

There was a pressure at the back of his skull as Razor urged the gun back into his mouth, forcing him to swallow the barrel whole. His rival stood hunched over him, watching with a predatory stare while his hips rocked forward ever so faintly, the unmistakable outline of a hard-on straining against his jeans.

The smell of blood and gasoline was intoxicating, and he felt hot and sticky in a way that had little to do with the humid summer night. A wild crew of swirling thunderclouds stirred overhead, announcing their arrival with neon flashes of amber lightning. The fierce storm closing in on Rockport mirrored the one raging within his chest.

He was almost relieved when Razor’s free hand released his head and shakily began to fumble with the button of his jeans. You keep pushing the throttle, sooner or later the engine’s gonna overheat.

Next thing the button popped open, and he heard himself moan around the barrel. He should have been grossed out by the prospect of Razor jacking off under his nose like some freakin’ sex offender, but at this stage he viewed it as just another way of daring him to step up his game. And hey, he’d always been a double or nothing kinda guy.

So when Razor unzipped his fly and _(goddamn, motherfucker’s gone commando)_ freed his erection, he lifted his head and let the gun slide out of his aching jaws. A trail of blood and saliva glistened in the moonlight before snapping much the same way his mind just had.

“Don’t you dare fuckin’ stop.”

Ignoring the warning, he leaned in toward Razor’s crotch until a musky scent invaded his nostrils and he could all but feel the warmth of velvety skin against his parted lips. He slowly looked up at his rival with meaningful, half-lidded eyes.

“Jesus…”

Razor’s breath hitched as he stared back in wide-eyed disbelief. Gun dangling forgotten by his side, the punk stroked his dick while bringing it teasingly closer to his bruised mouth.

He licked his busted lips and took a deep breath to calm his nerves. When he was sure he had Razor’s full attention, he moved in for the kill.

His hand lashed out for the gun, but his brain felt like road kill and his coordination was shit and he ended up knocking the damn thing out of Razor’s unsuspecting hand instead. The weapon skidded over the asphalt like a rogue missile for one heart-stopping second until it bumped dead against one of the Mustang’s front tires.

It seemed like ages before his heart dared another beat and he let out the breath he’d been holding. Not for the first time that day, he was grateful just to be alive.

That is, until Razor’s voice broke the silence, eerily calm. “You fuckin’ bitch.”

_Oh shit._

A strong fist grabbed him by the hair and dragged him upright, nearly tearing off his scalp, and the next moment Razor got in his face, features contorted in pure and utter rage. There was a depth of sadism in his eyes he’d only ever seen _hints_ of before.

Razor wheeled him around, shoved him roughly against the Mustang and slammed him face first into the crumpled hood. It was more than his banged-up brain could take, and he screwed his eyes shut to try and fight off another bout of nausea.

Then a voice crawled over the back of his neck, hoarse and without mercy, and his stomach clenched for real, this time in fear.

“Remember that time I said you were gonna burn?”

Oh, he remembered alright. Except the phrase sounded ten times more ominous now than it had on his voicemail back then.

 _I know what your game is, punk. You’re sellin’ us out, big surprise. I don’t know how, but you are. For that_ – _you’re gonna pay. You ain’t never gonna get to the top. Ever. You can count on that. You’re gonna burn._

He’d long since lost count of the number of times spent rereading his text messages and hitting the repeat button on his voicemail over and over again, skirting the fine line between hate and obsession. Now he wondered if the smell of burnt rubber came from the tires of his heart spinning out of control at long last.

His skull throbbed from Razor’s vise-like grip, and he worried he might pass out like this never to wake up again. To die right there on the carcass of that fuckin’ Mustang – that would be some heavy poetic justice shit.

Then he felt fingers on his crotch, fumbling with his zipper, and his eyes flew open in sheer shock. He tried and failed to move his head even as his pants and boxers got tugged down to his knees. It flashed through his mind, glaring and inexorable like a speed cam, that Razor intended to fuck him where he stood – either with the gun or…

Of the two, he was not sure which horrified him more.

Razor draped his lean, muscular frame over him, pinning him down like a porn parody of the times he’d resisted arrest – except not even in the middle of a heat 5 chase had he ever felt the wild panic he felt now. He tried to buck the guy off, blindly lurching forward like he was stuck in the wrong gear, but the bastard had alarmingly little trouble overpowering him.

“You like it rough, huh?” Razor whispered near his ear, his breathing ragged. The acrid smell of sweat and motor oil filled his nostrils, and there was no way he could mistake the sick feel of an erection poking him from behind.

Razor let go off his hair to dig an elbow into his lower back, making it hard to breathe, using his weight to keep him pinned to the car. He jerked his head sideways as the sleazebag started grinding himself against his bare ass through the open front of his jeans.

“Dude, stop it–” he pleaded, voice wavering, feeling as if a lack of coolant in his veins was making his blood boil. The plant and parking lot seemed dreamlike and unreal, a blurry haze matching the 200+ mph of his heart. “Don’t–”

_Please don’t rape me oh god._

Razor loomed larger than life over him, forehead resting against his shoulder as he breathed his poison into his skin. “Oh yeah, I love it when you beg.”

Razor’s tongue licked a trail up his spine before he spat into his hand and reached down between their lower bodies, forcing his legs apart. He could feel every sick bit of movement behind him, every weak hip thrust as the guy lubed himself up.

The wheels in his brain were spinning in overdrive by the time Razor’s index and middle finger, now slick with spit and precum and reeking of pure sex, reached up to caress his tender bottom lip.

“Suck.” The command was no more than a harsh breath.

He considered keeping his jaws shut; considered opening his mouth and biting the fucker’s fingers off. Considered, finally, the warning pressing thick and rigid against his asshole, and slowly parted his lips to accept the intrusion.

A noise of approval spilled from Razor when he surrendered, brain gearing into survival mode as he shamelessly ran his tongue along the invading digits. Instinct taking over, he closed his eyes to try and focus on the taste and texture of warm skin and forget about the fucked-up circumstances or the crazy psycho on top of him… soon to be inside him.

His mouth had to be doing something right, judging by Razor’s muttered curses and the unconscious rolling of hips against his ass. Before long the fingers slipped back out of his mouth, and he fought the mad impulse to flick his tongue out at their retreat.

Heart back to beating like a mofo against his ribs, he forced himself to take slow and even breaths through his nose while Razor found his way down and prepped him roughly. He gritted his teeth as slick digits rubbed his spot and pushed inside again and again, a threat and promise all at once. Breath quickening as if to speed match his own, Razor shifted the gears of his body like he did his ride’s – sharply but expertly, fingers working him until he found his clutch slipping and grabbing repeatedly.

Then the fingers were gone and the sole thing left was smoking, sizzling anticipation. Bile rose up in his throat, insides constricting with fear and disgust and shame and a whole damn nitro kit of scary-as-fuck emotions.

Razor curled his fist back into his hair, grasping him tight, while a hard length pressed against his virgin hole, warm and wet and _Jesus fucking huge_. Bracing his clammy and fevered forehead on the cool surface of the hood, he froze in terror at the intimate assault.

At last Razor breached him, slow but inescapable, and he had to bite down on his fist to keep from crying out. It _did_ burn – like he was gonna get ripped in half from the inside out – but he had a feeling screams of pain would only egg the son of a bitch on.

But then Razor grunted and pushed in even deeper, stretching him something awful, and Christ, he could actually feel the guy’s pulse inside of him, an off-key electro beat throbbing between their bodies, and it was just too fucking much.

“…Who’s winning now, champ?”

“Fuck… you…” he choked out between clenched teeth.

Razor let out a breathless laugh and began to move and _oh sweet fuck_ _it hurt_. The pain triggered what little fighting spirit he had left and he hissed and squirmed in a fresh effort to break free. Razor growled and gripped him harder, shoving him down, one hand fisting his hair and the other digging painfully into his hip bone as he fucked him into the Mustang with short, quick thrusts, driving the air out of his lungs and filling him up with pure hate every time he pumped his hips.

He was clawing at the hood for dear life, fingers scratching futilely along the ruined surface, as Razor up-shifted into some forbidden gear that made his whole body shudder. He rebelled and seethed and snarled, impaling himself further onto Razor’s dick and practically begging to be hurt, urging him to bruise, but pain was the one thing that made this bearable.

The hand on his hip sneaked under his t-shirt, blunt nails trailing over the ridges of his abs, and his muscles quivered with revulsion and anger and other, unspeakable things. He could feel the cool wetness of Razor’s tongue tracing the back of his neck, a soothing contrast to the high-octane fuel burning in his veins. The steam was starting to fog up his brain.

A small whimper stole past his lips, helpless and desperate, lost into the night like the engine noise of a sleeper car. His own erection was heavy and needing, trapped between his body and the Mustang, and he was torn between pressing it against the metal frame for relief and bucking up into Razor’s merciless assault.

Razor was panting. “Yeah, that’s it, punk.”

And then they were past the point of speaking, all scrambling fingernails and angry teeth and pounding hips as their nostrils picked up on the heady scent of fresh blood between his legs. There was nothing sensual or erotic about this thing between them – it was ugly and rough and aggressive, a vicious struggle for dominance, the fucked-up culmination of a rivalry, hatred spiraled out of control.

His t-shirt clung to his sweat-soaked torso while beads of perspiration fell from Razor’s forehead, dropping hot and wet onto his nape, drenching him like a warm thunderstorm smelling of burnt asphalt and gasoline and sex instead of ozone.

He was vaguely aware of his own voice, raw and urgent, and no longer even cared what he was begging for at this point, losing himself in the twisted rhythm of a machine made of pistoning hips and straining muscles.

Soon they were letting go of the wheel and freely speeding off toward the point of no return.

Razor bit the back of his neck to stifle his moans while he shuddered and spent himself inside him, teeth gripping hard enough to bruise, and it was just the edge he needed to rush over the finish line himself. He barely had to touch himself at all before he was coming into his hand, breath stuttering and hips spasming, drunk on pain and pleasure.

Razor held him down and forced him back onto his semi-hard dick, riding the waves with him, pushing his engine so far past the limit he suspected he was never gonna be the same again. Hard chest bearing down on him, he imagined the ink of those tattoos seeping under his skin, a myriad of colors corrupting every cell in his body.

He was out of breath and struggling to come back to his senses when Razor’s lips touched his nape. In another life it could have felt intimate, but he recognized the gesture for the threat it was.

“You’re mine, Blacklist boy. Don’t ya forget it.”

With that, Razor pushed himself up on his arms and pulled out of him, further tearing up his slick and abused hole. He gave a sharp hiss but otherwise let it happen; didn’t move even as Razor turned around to lean boneless against the dented frame of the Mustang, looking as busted-up as his ride.

He oughta wipe himself clean and cover himself up instead of lying there draped over the car like a cheap hooker – fucked within an inch of his life and naked from the waist down, t-shirt ridden up to his armpits, with a mixture of semen and blood trickling warm and shameful down the inside of his legs – but his inner fuel tank was empty. And yeah, his pervy brain didn’t fail to see the irony in that.

The two of them lingered like that for a while, catching their breaths while evading reality like a spiked roadblock, until the storm broke loose at last and hot raindrops started falling down, washing away the physical traces of their most recent vice. He was surprised the water didn’t turn to steam on their heated skin.

Maybe the concussion was turning him lyrical, but as he watched Razor close his eyes and tilt his head up to the rain, he couldn’t help but think this must be either baptism or Last Rites. In a way, he suspected it was both.

Man, he could really do with a cigarette right about now. Sure, he quit back when he was a punk-ass teen, but crazy times and ditto measures and shit.

“You smoke?” he asked, voice weak and unsteady but it was a small victory he managed to speak at all.

Razor slowly reopened his eyes, dripping wet as he briefly shook his head and stared past the parking lot into nothingness. “My drug is street racin’. Always has been.” His gaze flicked to the sexual aftermath of their final confrontation before drifting back to the road. “Or it was,” he said softly.

There was a hidden sheen to his words, not immediately visible to the eye like a coat of pearlescent. The tacit implication that they might be hooked on something way more dangerous than illegal street racing.

His own eyes strayed over the pair of totaled cars, one serving as a messed-up pillow beneath him and the other crushed against the wall like a modern sculpture on drugs. The cops were gonna love their shredded-steel still life. Nothing like a near murder-suicide to cheer up your morning patrol.

“You gonna turn me in now?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.

“Don’t think I haven’t considered it. Cross would smell me all over you. Might just be worth it.”

“So why don’t ya?” He was feeling languid and strangely talkative, reveling in the downpour cooling off his brain and soothing his sore body.

Razor huffed a bitter laugh. “Ain’t gonna get my boys outta the clink or 5-0 off our backs. Can’t turn back time.” The muscle in his jaw ticked as he paused. “Rockport’s through.”

“Palmont ain’t.” Fuck. He had _not_ just said that.

“Palmont?” Razor scoffed, a nasty smirk tugging at his mouth. “A bunch o’ fashion school dropouts afraid to get motor oil on their pretty manicured hands.”

“You rather stay Cross’s bitch?”

Razor stalked up to him. “Let’s not start on who’s being whose bitch here.”

The guy hovered over him for a moment, dragging ungentle fingers up his naked, trembling flanks. He tensed in alarm, but then his t-shirt got tugged over his head and he twisted his neck to find Razor wiping down his crotch area. Their eyes met, and he allowed his rival to step closer and run the wet fabric up his thighs and between his legs, even though the slow rubbing hinted at possession much more than courtesy.

“Guess I could get used to this,” Razor whispered, flinging his dirty shirt onto the car hood.

Fuck. If RPD decided to send down a forensic team to test that shirt for body fluids and DNA… that’d make for one hell of a farewell note.

Not that there coulda been much doubt as to the perpetrators involved. As he shakily got to his feet and hauled his pants up, hurting everywhere both inside and out, he shot one last look at the BMW that used to be his pride and joy. His heart ached to leave her behind, but he told himself at least they’d been together during her final moments.

He swallowed down manly tears before turning away and clearing his throat. “So…”

Zipping up, Razor sauntered toward the street and jutted his chin forward. “Bus stop’s that way, champ.”

***

**Author's Note:**

> Of course I do not condone rape IRL, and “no” never means “yes”. But hey, that’s what fics are for, right?
> 
> Razor’s “there’s plenty wrong with me” is based on a similar line from the Joker in _Batman: Arkham City_.


End file.
